


All the queen’s men – and her one Lord M

by Nina36



Series: Forks in the road [2]
Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, vicbourne has consumed my soul and ruined my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8461000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: He was not – a soldier. He was not the man they wanted him to be. It went against his nature, it was the reason his mother and sisters had always worried so much about him. He was not a hero. He had never wished to be one.There was no one else, though – because no one else knew the Queen as he did, there was no one else the Queen trusted, and no one else was willing to truly face the consequences of  what they were planning.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this one just did not want to get out of my head. I have read that, historically speaking, there was no plot to have the Queen removed and have a regency (seriously, they could not afford another – it would have been a disaster waiting to happen) and that the Duchess of Kent sure as hell was not part of it. I, of course, move within the context of the show where the plot to have the Queen removed and have a Regency, took most of the second episode, and let my mind conjure up “what if” scenarios. I don’t even know, guys…   
> Also: writing in the present tense kicks my ass. I do not know why on Earth I have done so lately, but believe me – for a non-English speaker it can get confusing. So, I go back to use the past tense – I apologise in advance for any mistake/typo/grammatical and syntactical nonsense you will find here. As soon as I have time I’ll go and edit the first part into something that resembles actual English :) . Suspension of disbelief is kinda necessary here, I think.

  _That the Duke of Wellington came to him, that he ignored their differences in politics and ideals, that he pretended that his friendship with the Queen was not cause of gossip in their circle did not truly surprise Lord Melbourne: the Duke of Wellington and him might have their differences, but they both valued their Country and the Crown._

_His words gave him hope. His words worried him. His words gave him the perfect opportunity to go back to his Queen – to have, once again, everything. Well, not everything, for there were things he could not, would not have._

_Forks in the road: in another world, the Duke of Wellington served his country and his queen, by talking to Lord Melbourne and the latter would go to the Queen’s aid and help her unveil her portrait, he would compliment her beauty and she would smile at him._

_But in another, Lord Melbourne was not at the House when the Duke of Wellington needed to talk to him, he was bedridden with a nasty bout of bronchitis – one that would take weeks to properly heal. He never received the letters he was sent: some were intercepted on the way out from Buckingham Palace, others were destroyed before they could reach Dover House._

_When he was better, it was too late: the Duchess of Kent (thus, sir John Conroy) and the odious Duke of Cumberland were the regents._

 

* * *

 

“This cannot be!” He said as the Duke of Wellington stopped talking.

The fact that he had come to his house, that he had taken it upon himself to give him the news, and the implicit request to do something about it, was definitely not lost on Lord Melbourne.

“Why was I not warned?” He asked.

“I sent you letters, Melbourne. I have had people come here, but your doctor said you needed absolute quiet and rest.” The old man said.

By God – had they got his personal physician too? And why didn’t his brother in law warn him? Why had no one?

“I gather you did not receive them, then.” The man said.

He shook his head. They were skirting the true matter at hand: treason and conspiracy. The man in front of him had been a soldier, he had defeated Napoleon, he had served the country all his life, he was the Commander in Chief of the British army and he, too, had been powerless to avoid what had happened and he could see the regret and shame on his face. He thought it was perhaps mirroring on his own.

_Do you really mean to forsake me?_

The queen had needed his help – and he had failed her; he had done _nothing._ Just like with Caro, just like with Augustus and with Mrs. Nortorn. The Duke of Wellington was still a soldier at heart and a good judge of character because he seemed to sense his inner turmoil and scoffed, “For God’s sake, Melbourne, we should think about a counteroffensive, stop pitying yourself!”

Counteroffensive? How could they?

“You might find it hard to believe it, Melbourne – but we had to acquiesce, even those of us who harbored doubts. I have met the Queen, she might be young and headstrong –“ The man hesitated, “and harbor inappropriate feelings for a much older man, but she is not crazy. I have not served my country all my life to see it destroyed by our current regents!”

That was, technically speaking, treason. The duke of Wellington did not seem afraid, though. It took a few moments for what the Duke had said – all of it – to fully register with him and when it happened his first reaction was to deny, to – avoid confrontation, to ignore, but the man in front of him did not allow it.

“Lord Melbourne,” The man said, “believe me when I say that right now your conduct and the Queen’s feelings for you are something I am deeply uninterested in.”

He sighed, feeling exposed under the Duke of Wellington’s gaze.

“What shall we do?” He asked, eventually.

The man smiled, “We shall win this war silently and quickly, Lord Melbourne. And then, only then, we shall have a talk.”

* * *

 

He was frankly amazed by what a group of men, of different ideals, could do when pressed. Compromise had always been paramount in the way he conducted politics, but that was _different_ : whighs and tories alike, conservatives and radicals in that room all agreed that having Cumberland as regent was abysmal – and having the Duchess of Kent, clearly manipulated by Sir John Conroy, was simply unacceptable.

If they failed – the consequences would be disastrous, both on a personal level and for their country. William realised that he was probably the only person in that room who was worried about _Victoria,_ the young woman who was now being kept at Kensington, almost as a prisoner, rather than the Queen.

He was frankly appalled at the things he heard, but he did not let what he was feeling show on his face.

Before they could act and repel the act that had made Cumberland and the Duchess of Kent regents, they needed to know the truth about the Queen’s mental status. Wellington might not believe she was crazy and Peel, despite his personal feelings and the fact that he was now Prime Minister, didn’t either, but the people in that room would not risk their lives, their position and their fortunes unless they had absolute proof that the Queen had not taken after her grandfather.

It was fair, he supposed – even if he knew the Queen was not crazy, he did not need any proof.

“The people are not happy with the new regent, this will play in our favor.” A young man said. Melbourne had met him once, he had a Jewish name and was ambitious – but was also loyal to the Queen.

“Mr. Disraeli is right,” Wellington said, “it will fall on one of us to make sure the Queen is of safe mind.” Lord Melbourne could swear he could hear the smirk in the old man’s voice, even if it sounded perfectly blank when he said, “Lord Melbourne  will see to that.”

He felt eyes on him. He felt their skepticism, and he bore it. After all, he had started it when he had resigned, when he had forsaken the queen.

“Oh, the hardship…” He heard someone quip behind him.

They had no idea.

“How shall I get in contact with her?” He asked.

That time Wellington’s smirk was impossible to ignore. “My dear Melbourne: this is a war. Therefore, as in each war we have spies and allies.”

* * *

 

 Baroness Lehzen had been sent away, but she had been allowed to write to the Queen. The Duchess of Kent truly believed that she was helping her daughter, she meant no harm to her, even though she clearly could not see that she had done irreparable damage to the relationship with her Drina, but that was not something Lord Melbourne was concerned with. He was a father – he had been a father, he would have rather died than forsaking his children.

Baroness Lehzen did not like him, she never had, ever since their first encounter and she had never come to appreciate him, therefore he was surprised when she took his hands in hers when they met.

Her eyes filled with tears and where he had expected to find blame and anger he only found – hope and worry.

“I am so glad you are here, Lord Melbourne!” The woman cried.

He was not – a soldier. He was not the man they wanted him to be. It went against his nature, it was the reason his mother and sisters had always worried so much about him. He was _not_ a hero. He had never wished to be one.

There was no one else, though – because no one else knew the Queen as he did, there was no one else the Queen trusted, and no one else was willing to truly face the consequences of  what they were planning. The fact that he had not hesitated, he had not shied away from the task he had been given had surprised him, at first – but truly: was there something he wouldn’t do for the Queen?

“I was kept in the dark.” He said. It was a feeble excuse, but it was also the truth. They had waited for his brother in law to be out of the country, they had bought his physician and some of his servants thus intercepting letters from the people who had tried to warn him and asked for his help with the Queen, but the truth had made its way to him, eventually.

“She wrote you so many letters, she was distraught when you did not reply!” The baroness said and there were still tears in her eyes, “They used her heart against her, Lord Melbourne.”

“I am sorry.” He said, feeling the hollowness of his words deep in his gut. Feeling more remorse that he thought he had left in him. She had needed him – and he had not been there for her. He would never forgive himself for that.

There had been a moment, early in his acquaintance with the Queen, where he had realised that he had been given a second chance, a reason to – live rather than wither and spend his remaining days musing over his many failures.

There was more than that, though, and layers upon layers of denial could not protect him, not any longer: he was in love with the queen, hopelessly, desperately in love with a woman young enough to be his daughter, who could never be his.

The queen had been right the last time they had met: he had forgot himself. And it broke his heart that those had been the last meaningful words they had exchanged. He hated the fact that he had hid behind duty rather than admitting defeat and staying by her side, even if it would have been painful, even if it would have meant to be constantly reminded of what he could not have.

“How is the Queen?” He asked, forcing a calm look on his face and a neutral tone in his voice.

“How do you think she is?” The baroness snapped. And in other circumstances he would have reminded her of her place, of who they were, but – he could not bring himself to say anything.

“She is – distraught. My _Lieben_ is a strong woman, but the betrayal…” Her words lingered on him, stuck on him, like tar and he knew that he would make thing right, even if it meant to lose everything.

“I would have never…” He said, and he had to force himself to make his voice strong. The woman needed to have confidence in him.

She was still holding his hands in hers and she took a moment to study him, they spent long seconds in silence, and eventually the woman said, “I was so worried that you would harm her, but I was wrong.”

No. She had been right, but not in the way she thought.

The woman blinked her eyes and then took a step back, breaking the physical contact between them. “Our correspondence is monitored, but – we took some precautions in the hours before the _event._ ”

He blinked his eyes, genuinely impressed by the woman’s words. The Duke of Wellington had not lied, apparently: they had spies, they had allies.

The woman smiled at the look on his face and said, “devil drives when needs must, Lord Melbourne and the Queen is nothing if not resourceful,”

He smiled the first real smile since he had been forced to resign as Prime Minister. “That she is,” He said.

“She is still fond of you,” The baroness said, “she was heartbroken when she thought you had forsaken her – but it was made clear to me that she had to understand that it was not your doing.”

The Duke of Wellington, of course. For some reason, the old man was championing for him in that instance, despite their differences.

“She was relieved – it has given her strength to bear her isolation.” The baroness said. There was an implicit threat in the woman’s voice, one that trumped gender and roles and etiquette. Lord Melbourne was sure that the woman would kill him should he cause her any more pain.

He was not surprised realizing that he would let her.

“Can you deliver a message from me?” He asked.

The woman nodded.

The message, hidden among other words in a way that only the queen could see it, read:

 

_"You are not alone, you have not been forsaken, not by your men and not by me. Never by me._

_Lord M."_

 

He wished he could say more, but – it was the best he could do under the circumstances. His personal inclinations would have to wait, the queen needed to know that she was not alone, that they would put an end to that folly and she would go back to her rightful place.

He spent that day, after he left the Baroness’ house in trepidation, unable to focus on anything. He had been informed that there were people who were discreetly spying on him and those who had been closest to the queen, but he paid no mind to them. On the surface he was doing nothing out of the ordinary, even his visit to Baroness Lehzen had been short and apparently innocent.

He was expected to inquiry after the Queen’s well-being as former private secretary and prime minister. It would have arisen more suspicions if he hadn’t. At least that was what he had been told by people who were decidedly more versed in those sort of tasks.

Spies. Conspirators.

Meanwhile, a group of men: Lords who had served the crown and the country for all their lives, were putting aside their differences and were studying a way to undo what had been done, without alarming the general population and the regents. He was proud of them – he was proud of being part of that conspiracy.

When the Queen’s reply finally came, it was the wee hours of the night, he was still in his study, pretending to read a book and trying not to let his mind wander too much.

He felt like he was in one of those gothic tales Caro had loved, with a man dressed in black who appeared on the threshold of his study, carrying an envelope and acting as if hordes of demons were at his heels.

He took the envelope in his hands and watched as the man left: there would be no reply to be given, not at the moment, but it did not surprise him.

 _"I knew you would not forsake me. I shall not forget what you are doing. I miss you.  "_  

 

The note was not signed. It was not even the Queen’s handwriting, it was the baroness’, but it was the closest he had been to the woman since he had left the palace after their quarrel.

“I miss you too…” He said to the empty room.

 

* * *

 

She had refused to sign the act. She had known it would make no difference, for things were already in motion when she learned of them, but she would not let them have the satisfaction of admitting defeat. 

It was worse than before. She was surrounded by spies and enemies, she was treated as – an invalid, a fragile child whose nerves were tattered. She was not an invalid, she was not a fragile child and her nerves were not tattered. She was angry, she was frustrated, she couldn’t help but feeling outrage at what had been done to her, but she was using that outrage, that anger to keep herself sane.

If she were to be completely honest with herself, in a way she did not dare to, not even to her journals for she knew her – _Mutter_ (she would never be _mama_ again, for as long as she breathed) read  them, she found strength in the knowledge that Lord M had not abandoned her. He had not forsaken her. And she could see, now, that she should have been more cautious – she should have not shown her heart so clearly. It had been a weakness that had been mercilessly exploited, by anyone – except the one person her heart belonged to.

How ironic.

Lord M, had not deserted her, though. Lehzen had informed her about what had happened. It was a painstaking, tiring process – but it kept her mind busy, and it gave her hope.

Lord M. was still on her side. Lord M. was fighting for her. It filled her heart with – something so big, so deep that she could not stay still, she could only stare at the sky through the window and ache.

She had once said that he was the only one who could understand, but it was more than that, and the weeks of exile had made things incredibly clear to her; it was simple, really: she was in love with him. She had believed she had been in love before, she had – held affection for other people, but it paled to what she felt for her former prime minister.

She missed him – it was not what she had felt in the days where he had resigned, or before when he could not come at the palace to dine with her – it ran deeper, it had put an ache in her chest that she could not heal.

She had brought a portrait of him with her from the palace, she was careful not to show it, and she did not even need to look at him, not as often as she had at the beginning. She regretted that they had parted on bad terms, she regretted that she had not listened to him, she regretted that she had not seen things clearly.

She had burned Lehzen’s letter, as she always did. Her _regents_ had protested, at first, but in the end, they had come to believe that there was nothing untoward going on in those missives. And there wasn’t. Lehzen kept her informed, she delivered messages to her, she was still her most trusted friend and ally.

Lord M’s message had brought tears to her eyes, but also a renewed sense of hope. When she returned to the throne she would make sure he would never leave her.

* * *

 

It took them weeks to plan things. It took money, a lot of it, and all kind of reassurances to the people who would facilitate what they had in mind, but eventually things were ready.

The general population could not know the truth. The official story, the one fed to the masses, was that the queen was unwell, not crazy, for it would have been too dangerous. There was all kind of rumors regarding the Queen’s mysterious illness anyway: that she was indeed crazy as her grandfather, that she had a terrible disfiguring disease – that she was with child and the father was Lord Melbourne.

As much as those rumors infuriated him, especially those about his Queen being pregnant with a child he had fathered, Lord Melbourne forced himself not to care. When and if their plan worked, everyone would see that the Queen was perfectly fine, that she was healthy, of a safe mind and not with child. The general population would never know the truth, and even if it angered him, he was ready to let it slide for the queen’s sake. For the country’s sake.

Of course, there was the possibility that their plan failed – and they would all pay dearly for trying to do the right thing. He was not overly concerned about that outcome, though. His mother would probably be proud that he had finally taken initiative, that he finally held something so dear, so high in his heart that he was ready to die for it.

There were other people involved and Lord Melbourne knew that realistically speaking, it was unlikely that the regents would punish them all should the plan fail. They would need a scapegoat, though – The Duke of Wellington had been frank about what his involvement in the plan would imply, he had asked him, mere hours before if he was willing to take such a risk.

“I cannot abandon my sovereign.” He had said.

The Duke had studied him for a moment and Lord Melbourne suspected that he had seen clearly behind the words he had said. 

“No,” The Duke had said, “I don’t suppose you can…”

He had not added anything, but there had been something akin to pride in the man’s eyes and that had given him strength. He was dressed incognito, now, an unmarked carriage waiting for him in a precise location he would be escorted to. It was folly, it was the most dangerous, reckless, senseless thing he had ever done in his life.

He could not stop smiling.

* * *

 

She was one of the heroines of the novels she read, she was – the princess trapped in a castle waiting for her knight in a shining armor, she was a woman forced to abide her feelings to do her duty, she was alone surrounded by enemies.

She was – trembling, as one of the servants, who had uttered the words that would make sure he was not one of _them_ , escorted her to farthest point in the park, secluded, where no one could see or spy on her.

She was Portia, dressing up as a man to defend the man she loved, she was – a queen who had to resort to desperate measures to reclaim her throne. She was – _Victoria_ , and she was about to see the man she loved for the first time in months.

If he was discovered, she would fight for him – as much as he was fighting for her. She would walk barefoot to the Palace and the House if needed it be, and would let them see, hear, know that they had made a mistake. And that was not to be tolerated.

The servant was afraid, it was clear from the ashen quality of his complexion and the way he could not properly meet her eyes. She was most grateful. She would not forget what he was doing, even if she knew – she was not _that_ naïve -  that he must have been handsomely paid for his services. Nevertheless, she thanked him as they reached the place and the man bowed, pink flushing his cheeks.

She looked around, it was a gray afternoon, it had not stopped raining for days, and she had had a hard time convincing her physician that some fresh air would do her good. Needless to say, she had succeeded. She was not to be swayed.

She did not even realise, at first, that her steps had quickened the second he spotted the familiar figure hidden behind a tree, but when she did – when she was sure it was indeed her dear (beloved) Lord M, she forgot herself and ran toward him, not caring about being seen, not caring, for once, about what discipline and duty dictated.

She saw the slow, bewildered smile curl the man’s lips as he started to move toward her and as it had always been between them, they met halfway and she could not care less about who might see them, what they might believe, how unbecoming it was for a queen, for a young, unmarried woman to run into a man’s arms.

And run she did, catching the surprise in Lord Melbourne’s face and giggling, as she had not done since the night he had told her he had no choice but resign from his position as her prime minister.

* * *

 

She was dressed as a servant, her hair loose on her shoulders and yet – there was no mistaking her for a common woman. She was a queen, she was regal even as she ran toward him and ran into his arms, all notions of etiquette, protocols and rules were forgotten.

He felt like he could finally breathe as she clung onto him – and she was not crying as he had half expected, but then again, his Queen had defied all of his expectations, she had proved herself to be quite an extraordinary person since the beginning of their acquaintance.

She was giggling and hiding her face against his chest and he was only too aware of the people looking at them, observing the scene that was taking place, ready to  corroborate or refute his words about the Queen’s mental health.

“Your majesty…” He said. He wanted nothing more than being allowed to linger in that contact, but he could not. They could not.

“Please…” She mumbled against his chest and he knew how much it was costing her to say those words, how hard it must be for her, but for her sake – for the sake of the country she had to remember their roles, she had to compose herself.

“We are being observed, ma’am –“ He whispered so that only she could hear, “it is of the utmost importance that there are no doubts about…” He hesitated. He did not want to upset her, but she needed to know the truth, he could not protect her with ignorance, therefore he gently, but forcibly broke their embrace and continued, “your sanity.”

She did not look around, her eyes filled with understanding in the span of a moment and she nodded, once. She took a step back, extending her hand for him to kiss – and it felt wrong, somehow, especially after having held her in his arms.

The Queen had learned one of his first lessons and taken it to heart: never let them know how hard it was to bear. A momentary lapse, after what had happened, would be ignored and forgiven, but nothing more – there was too much at stake, too many people were risking everything to make things right for their country.

He kissed her hand and as he rose said, “You have been sorely missed, ma’am.”

She smiled and said, “Likewise, Lord M.”

“We don’t have much time, ma’am and there is a lot we need to discuss!” He said, “Shall we walk?” He gestured toward the part of the park behind him and she nodded.

He told her as succinctly and efficiently as he could what had happened, the steps that were being taken to ensure that the regency came to an end sooner rather than later and who were the people involved in the plan.

“I am – impressed,” She said after a moment of silence, “and thankful. I shall not forget it.”

He told her about the plan and what her role in it was. The hardest part, the one he knew would be difficult to accept for her, was telling her what she would have to do if things went according to the plan. It was vastly unfair, but life seldom was fair and the Queen was about to truly find out.

“As far as your subjects know, as far as the _world_ knows, you are unwell…” He said. She would find out about the rumors and the vile gossip in time, there was no reason to saddle her with useless drivel.

“Oh,” She said, and stopped walking. Their hands brushed for a moment, but she gave no sign of noticing, “I see.”

“As tempting as it will be, you cannot –“ He trailed, but she interrupted him and said, “Yes, I understand.”

Did she? Really?

“Lord Melbourne,” She said, she didn’t sound angry as she usually was when she did not call him Lord M, but there was a hardness  in her features that had not been there before. She was not the girl who had run into his arms, she wasn’t even the one who had come to Dover House after she had resigned. She was a Queen. She would be a great queen – and it hurt him to see her shed her innocence before his eyes. He had tried so hard to spare her, to protect her – and he had failed. Again.

“I shall do what is right for my Country.” She said coldly.

She would – even if he feared he had just lost her, for good.  

 

* * *

 

 Thinking back about the plan, years later, he would always marvel at how lucky they had been. He would always feel tugs of pride at how differences in politics and beliefs had been put aside for the greater good.

He would also think back and realize how big of a fool he had been when he had believed he had lost Victoria. And she would remind him of his folly, time and again.

That came later. As he lived those weeks, there was too much to think about and at the time he truly had thought he had lost the Queen’s respect.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it went splendidly. It could not have been otherwise, not when the Duke of Wellington had engineered the strategy; he had said it was a war, and he meant to win it with the least possible collateral damage.

Everyone had to play their part – and they all did: both at the Palace, where the Queen was escorted, looking even more radiant than the day of her coronation, and at the House where  they repelled the Regency act. Unbeknownst to him their small group had spread and worked hard so that the Regency would come to a swift end.

In later years, when only part of the truth would come out, there would be a lot of talk among historians about what could have potentially gone wrong, about how that same group might have overthrown monarchy entirely had they held different beliefs.

The truth was that they truly only held one thing in common: their love for the Crown, the deep-rooted, unshakeable belief that there could be no Parliament without the crown and vice versa, the common belief that England could and would flourish thanks to their young Queen. The blue-eyed girl was their Country’s future.

Many men on that memorable day served their country, regardless of the fact that they were making enemies, that their actions would not be forgotten or forgiven. In the end, the Regents had no choice but to do the right thing. They were given no other choice, not when the Queen looked the picture of perfect health: she was not crazy, as three different physicians could attest, she did not have any disfiguring or debilitating disease and she most certainly was not with child.

She kissed both her mother and her uncle on their cheeks,  she took sir John Conroy’s hand in hers and thanked them for the burden they had temporarily carried in her place.

“We think you have done a marvelous job, we shall not forget all you have done for us.” She said, in front of dozens of witnesses and Lord Melbourne knew that she had meant every syllable.

She did not look at him, not once that day, but Lord Melbourne didn’t care. His queen had admired Elizabeth, and she showed she was as much a sovereign as the Virgin queen had been.  

He could hardly stop the tears the welled up in his eyes as she reclaimed what she was rightfully hers. And if a few of those tears were for what he thought he had lost, he decided it was a burden he would gladly bear for his queen.

 

* * *

 

The masses, the general public never got to know the truth; only the queen’s men knew what had exactly happened during those few months. The general public did not know that men of different age and political beliefs had banded together for the good of the country.

Very few knew that the Queen refused to acknowledge her uncle whenever they were not in public. The more informed knew that Sir John Conroy had left, they did not know that he had had no choice but to accept a lot less than he would have received under other circumstances.

The Queen paid what was left of her father’s debts with her own money, gave a rise to her mother’s allowance, she tolerated her presence at Buckingham Palace, but she had said the truth once: she would never be her _mama_ again. The Duchess of Kent learned it the hard way. She learned the difference between loved and being tolerated for the sake of appearances.

Her part of the plan, her duty was to smile and wave and never let the world know how hard it had been, how many nights she had cried herself to sleep, how close she had felt to really lose her mind.

The men who had conspired against her, those who had eased her uncle and mother’s regency were all sent away; there was no trial for treason, only frosty conversations and orders veiled as suggestions to leave England never to return.

 There were no issues with Robert Peel, that time: she made changes to her household, she would not forsake her dear Emma and Harriet, for they had helped in any way they could during what she called her time “away”, but she added ladies in waiting from Tories families. It did not matter, not really, for she knew who her friends were. Her prime minister was loyal and she did not forget how much he had risked for her.

 

* * *

 

The queen’s men were all thanked personally, it had been a small affair, and the recognition could not become public and would not become such for a long time, for there was too much turmoil all over Europe and the Crown could not risk to be shaken to its core.

She had been civil to Lord Melbourne, he had dined to the Palace and it had almost been like old times; no – that was a lie and he knew that. She was different, she could barely bear to look at him, she kept her distance from him, and perhaps the Duke of Wellington had been right when he had said that there would possibly be a scapegoat, that someone would pay a price for what had happened.

He was wrong.

* * *

 

Brocket Hall was quiet, it was a place filled with memories for him, both good and bad ones, it was where he retreated when his life in London became too vexing when he was hurting and he needed to be alone with his books and the colors of the trees and the nature surrounding him.

There was not a real reason for him to be in London any longer; his visits to the Palace were not enough. Things had changed, he had known they would when he had resigned from his position as Prime Minister and – he was living it, now. It was only natural that the Queen would become more confident, would need him less and less. She was a remarkable woman, she would be – no, she already was a good queen. He was immensely proud of her.

He had loved, he had been loved – he ought not to be greedy, that was what he kept telling himself, those were the lines of thoughts that filled his mind as he tended to the blooms in his glasshouse in the mornings. The glasshouse had been closed for years, ever since Caro’s death, he only recently he had started working on flowers again.

When he tired of working in the glasshouse he spent hours walking, looking at the trees and the rooks. It was a nice, comforting routine, and if sometimes it felt hollow if he missed the long hours spent at the Palace with his queen, he tried to push those thoughts away.

He was walking, admiring the yellowing leaves on the trees, as he spotted a familiar shape approaching. He had watched the same figure running toward him, months before. He had held her in his arms, for brief, precious seconds, he had felt her giggling against his chest and wished he could somehow stop time, crystallize it in that single moment. He had pushed her away, for her own good, for there had been too much at stake, but he had not forgotten those moments – and to see her, calmly walking toward him, dressed in purple, a black veil covering her face (she would never, could never truly be disguised), felt almost unreal.

He took a few steps, feeling absurdly self-conscious about his attire, his age, his life. What was she doing there? She should not – could _not_ be there, she was supposed to be at the Palace – wasn’t she?

She slowed down her pace to a halt and he did the same. She slowly, deliberately, pulled up her veil. It felt like he was parched – he had missed her terribly, he had missed having the chance to see her, to just be with her.

“Ma’am…” He said.

She smiled and he realised she had not smiled at him like that for far too long. It was – different than in the past, he could sense it, it was clear on her face, in her posture.

“Lord M,” She said. It had been such a long time since she had used that endearment with him and he could not help but take another step toward her.

“I came here _incognito,”_ She said. It seemed important to her that he knew that, she hesitated for a beat before adding, “It feels like I have done nothing else for months.”

She was looking at him – and he saw how much the past months had been hard on her, he saw shadows under her eyes and – a look that had not been there before: she had not just grown, she had hardened, she had – hurt. She was still hurting.

“I’m sorry.” He said. It was the truth – he was sorrier than words could ever express. He felt responsible for what had happened. The fact that she was there it only spoke of how big her heart was.

She shook her head, “Don’t. I came here because – “ she paused and said, “can we walk?”

“Yes, of course.” He said. They started walking and he was taken aback when she hesitantly, but firmly sought his hand with hers.

They started walking in silence and he felt like he could spend the rest of his days like that. It was impossible, of course – and he was far too old to believe in fairy tales, but he allowed himself to pretend, for a moment. It would be more painful in the end, but – he  chose not to care. He had spent too much time trying to shield his heart from being hurt again – and what had it brought him?

“It is beautiful here. It suits you.” She said, he knew her too well, he knew there was something she wanted to tell him.

Therefore, he did the only thing he could: he spoke in her place, “Ma’am, whilst I am glad to see you, I must ask you: why are you here?”

“You saved me.” She said.

He shook his head, “No, ma’am,”

“But you did. That day at Kensington, you saved me!” She said. He was about to speak, he opened his mouth when she stopped him, by putting her hand on his arm and said, “Do not dare, Lord M! Allow me  -“

It was her queen speaking, it was the young woman he loved, the woman who had saved him, and – he could not deny her anything. Not that time.

“You reminded me of my duty – and I obliged. Do not think I was not aware of the scrutiny on my person when I came back. Or on yours.” She said. It was the truth. She had been most observing, and she had been extremely apt at not letting him know.

“I was – childish when you resigned. I was not ready to lose you,” She continued, “and as a matter of fact, this has not changed.”

He could feel her hands on his arm, her eyes boring into his, he could hear her voice and yet it did not feel real. It could not be.

“Ma’am –“ He trailed.

She ignored his words, but her smile – threatened to break his heart. There was no mistaking in the look in her eyes or her smile. She was beautiful. She was real.

“You do understand, therefore, why I could not reveal my inclinations upon my return.” She said.

Inclinations?

She took a small step toward him, shortening the distance between them. It was far from being appropriate, but he was transfixed by what he could see in the young woman’s eyes: it was love, pure and completely directed at him. How – could it be?

“I see –“ He said, after what it felt like hours, spent looking back at her, unashamedly drinking her in.

“I cannot imagine not having you in my life, Lord M.” She said.  

He could not imagine it either. He didn’t want to.

* * *

 

On the way to Brocket Hall she had imagined it would be hard to speak candidly about her feelings. She had imagined she would feel embarrassed, she had not anticipated, she had not thought that speaking the truth to Lord M, would make her feel so liberated.

She had missed him. There had been days when they had been in the same room and she had had to ignore him, she had had to barely acknowledge his presence, to pretend and pretend and pretend. It went against her nature, it was exhausting and it angered her, but she had learned her lesson.

 She had never imagined one could love so deeply – and that love could grow and change and become such a source of strength and heartache at the same time. She knew she had hurt him after she had come back, she had seen the way he stood aside, the way he kept silent and had seen the look in his eyes – and had silently, secretly ached for him.

She had been asked to make sacrifices upon her return, she had been asked to play a part, to go against her very nature for the sake of her country and her subjects. She was not ready, she would never be ready to part from Lord M. therefore, she had done the only thing she could: she had spoken the truth, part of it, at least – and she felt lighter and more alive than she had felt for a very long time.

“Ma’am…” He trailed. He looked – lost and unsure of what to say or do. He wanted to protect her, he wanted to do the right thing. He was a good man, the man she loved – the only person she truly, implicitly trusted, the one who held her heart and had never, not once, used it against her.

“I can and have made sacrifices for my country and I know I shall have to make more, I can – pretend I forgave those who betrayed me. I can pretend the betrayal never happened in the first place. I can pretend I was not afraid and alone and a captive in my childhood home, but I cannot, will not lose you. Not again.” She said. That was simply unacceptable.

It was unbecoming and inappropriate, it was crazy, it was fraught with dangers, but it was also the first time in months she felt like she could truly, properly breathe. It was the first time she felt happy and herself again.

She started when he entwined his fingers with hers. She had held his hand as they walked and it had felt natural, it had felt like something that should have happened a long time before. It had made her feel safe – but that was different.

It was intimate, it was the words Lord M still wasn’t saying, even as he kept looking at her and there was a gentle smile playing on his lips.

 _Please, please, do not reject me. Do not forsake me again._ She pleaded with her eyes.

“I don’t want to put you in danger, ma’am.” He said. He sounded broken, defeated.

“You won’t. You saved me.” She replied. It was the truth, and it was beautiful – and refreshing and she wanted nothing more than to be held in his arms, again.

“You will be expected to marry soon.” He said.

It was true, there were talks of  her needing to be married and start a family, to avoid any further danger to the crown.  

“That shall not happen!” She said, “There is no one I want, no one I trust with my heart,” She shrugged and added, “present company excluded.”

Her uncle had not abandoned his ideas and plans of a marriage with her cousin, but that would not happen. She would not welcome her Mutter’s brother, not after she had pleaded for his help and he had ignored her, telling her to trust her Mutter and that it was for her own good.

She would tell Lord M later about that, she would tell him that there was no prince or heir to any throne she would ever trust, that she could ever possibly love.

“I would want nothing more, ma’am – but I fear it is my selfishness talking.” Lord M. said.

She smiled. They were so close, and she had forgot how safe being near that man made her feel – but there was also more, now – a maelstrom of curiosity and desire and love that she could not ignore.

“I cannot propose – even if I wish I could. I cannot give you more than my heart –“ She said, “if you want it.”

She saw the struggle in his eyes. She had become very good at reading the man’s state of mind, she had had to learn to observe discreetly, to be silent and secretive. She hated what she had had to do, what she had had to become.

The Duke of Wellington had been – frank with her upon her return. He had told her that whilst he remembered how young love could make one feel, she had a duty – she had a responsibility, she had to protect the crown and protect the man who had risked everything for her.

She suspected the Duke had said similar words to Lord M, she saw the ongoing struggle between honor, duty and personal feelings going on in the man’s green eyes, but she could not relent.

She felt tears prickling at her eyes and fought them back, with all her might, that seemed to shake Lord M from his reverie, from the battle he had been fighting with himself.

“Victoria…” He said, reverently, hesitantly, but he was smiling, he was covering her hand with his and stepping closer.

“It shall not be easy –“ She said. They were mere inches apart, now. She could feel her heart beating so fast in her chest that she was positive he must hear it too.

“I know.” He replied. She tilted her head up. She was acutely aware of how close they were, of how they had never been closer, not even the night of her coronation ball, or when she had flung himself in his arms, months before. That was different. That was like stepping into the Palace and reclaiming what was hers.

“I fear you will hate me, one day –“ He whispered.

“Never.” She breathed.

She trembled, she could not help it, when his hand went to her cheek to cup it, not with fear but anticipation.

“I will cherish your heart –“ He breathed against her lips.

“And I, yours.” She replied.

There would be other promises, other vows, and oaths – there would be rings exchanged, long stretches of silences and lies, deceits, scandals – and happiness, a world of it. She would – they would fight for him to be by her side, but that would come later.

There would be fights, there would be tears and hurtful words. There would be nights spent together, stealing time and bliss, there would be moments where she would crumble down in his arms and he would hold her, kiss her hair and whisper, over and over how much he loved her.

There would be good, splendid days – and bad, horrible days.

There would be long hours spent together, keeping a safe distance from each other, while their bodies ached for each other. There would be moments where she would be in his arms as he read to her, as he told her about his life and she would tell him about her dreams and fantasies.

And it began there, at Brocket Hall, as he brushed her lips with his, sealing their fate, committing their lives to each other.

It was a kiss, passion, and devotion consuming them both. It was the start of their life together.

The Queen, her men – and her one Lord M. Her friend, her most trusted advisor, her lover, and companion.

 


End file.
